


keep a weather eye

by brinnanza



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: A complete and utter lack of shame feat. hawkeye pierce, Accidental Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Intentional Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 06:12:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14805860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: The first time, BJ is reasonably certain, is an accident.





	keep a weather eye

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to floot for beta reading!!

The first time, BJ is reasonably certain, is an accident.

He’s on duty and Hawkeye has a date with Nurse Johansson in the supply shed, so when his shift is over, BJ is expecting the Swamp to be empty. He’s been checking and rechecking Private Santos’s blood pressure every fifteen minutes for the last four hours until it finally stabilized, and dreams of peaceful and uninterrupted slumber have been dancing oh-so enticingly in his head.

He pulls open the door, intending to reintroduce his face to his pillow as soon as humanly possible, and then freezes while his brain struggles to make sense of the image before him. Hawkeye’s sprawled out in his bunk, flushed red and exhaling little whimpers as he touches himself --

BJ rears back out of the tent, realizing too late that he’s let the door clatter against the frame, and bolts back behind Post-Op so he can lean against a solid wall and try to remember how to breathe. His face is burning, and not entirely with shame. 

The polite thing to do, BJ knows, is to put it out of his mind. Because it’s not like he doesn’t _know_ Hawkeye gets up to an occasional bit of self love. They live in each other’s pockets, and despite Hawkeye’s reputation, BJ has seen him strike out an impressive number of times. (It’s helped, BJ supposes, by how often Hawkeye comes up to bat.) It’s just one of those things you pretend not to know about even if you do.

But _god…._ He’d only caught a glimpse -- Hawkeye’s thighs splayed, one hand wrapped around his cock -- but it’s burned into BJ’s memory, tattooed on his retinas. Arousal crackles electric up BJ’s spine and he tips his head back again the wall, trying in vain to douse it. It’s difficult enough to control his breathing when Hawkeye’s poorly-stifled moans wake him in the middle of the night, but to actually see it --

That he wants Hawkeye is far from breaking news. Hell, BJ had known that from Kimpo, but propositioning your male tentmate, even one who is probably definitely queer and for whom you have your wife’s enthusiastic blessing, is not generally considered to be a wise move. (Wise moves are few and far between in Korea, but at least he knows where this particular land mine is.)

After a few minutes, BJ manages to get himself under control enough to wander around the compound for a little while. When he does eventually head for the Swamp, he approaches with plenty of noise just in case. 

Hawkeye’s lounging in his cot with a martini. He peers at BJ over the rim of the glass, eyebrows lifted in greeting.

“How’d your date go?” BJ says with deliberate lightness, hoping Hawkeye had been too distracted to notice the brief audience. “You’re home awfully early. You strike out?”

Hawkeye gives him a considering look. “It was more of a fly ball.”

\--

The second time is probably a coincidence.

BJ had been scheduled in surgery, an appendectomy for one of the locals that should have kept him out of the Swamp for a couple of hours at least. The operation goes remarkably smoothly, and BJ’s done in record time, so he gets out of his whites and heads back to the Swamp for a celebratory drink.

He registers Hawkeye’s gasping cries just a second too late and pulls open the door to see Hawkeye with one hand on his cock and the other twisted around behind him doing something BJ can’t see but that he can suddenly picture in stunning technicolor and surround sound.

...Coffee’s good too.

\--

By the third time, BJ has run the gamut from embarrassed through to suspicious. Because twice might well be a coincidence, but three times is a trend.

BJ is in and out of the Swamp in record time with his robe, a towel, and some soap, but the memory of Hawkeye panting, “Oh, yes, god, yes --” through pleasure-slackened lips follows BJ into the (thankfully empty) shower tent. He’s so wound up that he’s a little amazed he doesn’t come the instant he gets a hand on his cock, but picturing Hawkeye’s flushed skin and bitten lips, his leaking cock and the litany of half sentences and pleas that fall from his mouth gets him there pretty quickly. 

He finishes up his shower, taking his time for both Hawkeye’s sake and his own, and then heads back to the Swamp. Hawkeye looks up from the magazine he’s flipping through and meets BJ’s eyes evenly. “Finished already?” he says.

BJ is pretty sure he’s not talking about the shower.

\--

The fourth time he walks in on Hawkeye, BJ decides he’s had quite enough of being kicked out of his own tent by Hawkeye’s libido, so he squares his shoulders and strides across the tent, passing by Hawkeye without so much as a sideways glance. He drops into his own cot and plucks Peg’s most recent letter off of the table to read yet again. He focuses on her sharp, precise handwriting, soothing and familiar, and tries to ignore Hawkeye’s gasping moans on the other side of the tent, which have, if possible, gotten even louder.

BJ keeps his eyes on the letter. _Dear BJ…_ The more he tries to tune it out, the more it seems like he can hear -- the wet glide of Hawkeye’s hand on his cock, the groan of canvas as he lifts his hips to meet his fist. BJ shifts a little, letting his legs fall open to make a bit more space in his increasingly too-tight trousers, but he’s determined to out-stubborn Hawkeye for once.

 _Dear BJ…_ He reads the first line of Peg’s letter for the fifth time and retains none of it. High-pitched, breathy noises drift over from Hawkeye’s side of the tent, and _god_ , even if BJ doesn’t look, he can’t help picturing it. His mind helpfully fills in the blanks: Hawkeye’s head tipped back, exposing the long column of his throat, beads of sweat sliding down his neck to pool along his collarbones. The salt tang of Hawkeye’s skin as BJ runs his tongue over every inch of him, sucking bruises into his neck, into his thighs, into the hollow of his hips.

The slick sound of Hawkeye’s hand gets faster and his moans get louder, and BJ gives up on pretending he’s ignoring it. He tucks the letter away and looks his fill, watches as Hawkeye fists his cock, the other hand shoving his shirt up so he can toy with a nipple. Somewhere in the back of BJ’s head, part of him is burning with shame that he’s intruding on this, that he’s actually getting off on the sight of his best friend getting off, but it’s drowned out by the much larger part that wants to see exactly what Hawkeye looks like when he comes.

BJ’s fists are clenched onto the sides of his cot, and he’s panting alongside Hawkeye, sharp little gasps he can’t quite stifle. His cock is aching, so desperate for friction that the lightest touch would probably tip him over the edge. It’s not his own hand he wants, but Hawkeye’s, Hawkeye bringing him off and looking up at him with those piercing blue eyes, a smirk on his mouth.

A quiet, desperate little moan escapes BJ as Hawkeye’s back bows and he cries out, his strokes going erratic as he comes, and _god_ , BJ’s imagination has nothing on the real thing. 

Hawkeye slumps back down onto his cot, eyes closed, and hums a pleased noise. Post-coital and relaxed is a good look on Hawkeye, and BJ can’t help wondering how he’d look freshly fucked, rumpled and red from BJ’s stubble on the inside of his thighs...

BJ looks away, face flushing hot with embarrassment and arousal in equal measure as Hawkeye leans over the side of his cot to snag a pair of shorts to wipe off his hand. “Enjoy the show?” Hawkeye says. His voice is casual, like he’s asking BJ about the weather or if he’s read any good books lately.

“Uh,” BJ says. It’s about as articulate as he’s capable of being with no blood in his brain. There’s a line here, he can see, but he’s not sure whether he’s already crossed it or not, and he looks up cautiously to find Hawkeye peering at him with a smug, feline grin.

Hawkeye pushes himself up off his bunk and saunters across the tent, dropping down onto the crate currently serving as a chair. He sprawls out more than should be possible, thighs falling open, and crosses his arms behind his head. It makes his t-shirt ride up, and BJ’s gaze is drawn to it automatically, to the pale strip of skin and hipbone he desperately wants to taste. He swallows hard, but his mouth is suddenly much too dry, like any moisture in his body joined his blood in heading south.

“Seems the least you could do is repay the favor,” Hawkeye says in a low, throaty voice. “I showed you mine, after all.”

“You want me to --” BJ says. Because Hawkeye can’t possibly mean what it sounds like he means. BJ is so hard he’s aching and it’s taking basically all of his concentration to stifle any aimless little thrusts of his hips, but he can’t --

“Mmhmm,” Hawkeye hums. His eyes flick down conspicuously to the bulge in BJ’s trousers.

It’s too hot, suddenly, and BJ’s skin is too tight. Watching Hawkeye had been one thing -- a dirty little thrill that will probably star in BJ’s fantasies from now until forever -- but to actually --

“What’s the matter?” Hawkeye says, blinking long, dark lashes at him over wide blue eyes. “Do you need some help?”

A gasping little moan escapes BJ’s throat, and his hips jerk upward of their own accord. Is Hawkeye actually offering -- There’s a wide gulf between a little exhibitionism between bunkies and actual hands-on participation, and _god_ , BJ wants it, wants Hawk’s hand on his cock, the same hand that had been wrapped around Hawkeye’s own cock a moment ago.

“God, Hawk --” BJ grinds out, still grasping the sides of his cot. “Are you -- Really?”

Hawkeye meets BJ’s eyes evenly. “Yes.”

It’s a confession, and not one made lightly. There is so much BJ wants to say, confessions of his own, a litany whispered against Hawkeye’s lips, but for now, the only words BJ has in him are “God, yes, Hawkeye --”

He barely gets through the first two before Hawkeye is surging toward him, crushing his lips against BJ’s. There’s no finesse in it, and he barely gives BJ a moment to react before he’s licking into BJ’s mouth, leaving stinging little bites on BJ’s lips. He straddles BJ’s thighs, wandering hands sliding up under BJ’s t-shirt and into his hair.

BJ just tries to hold on, chases Hawkeye’s mouth when Hawkeye breaks off to suck a bruise into BJ’s neck and _god_ , watching Hawkeye was incredible, but actually experiencing him is downright _divine_. BJ’s not sure he’ll survive it -- his pulse is pounding in his ears and he’s panting into Hawkeye’s hair, keening whines crawling up out of his throat. He wants to feel Hawkeye _everywhere_ , inside and out, hands and lips and tongue, wants to drown in miles of skin against skin. 

He reaches for the hem of Hawkeye’s t-shirt and yanks it up over Hawkeye’s head, but before he can start on Hawkeye’s trousers, Hawkeye slithers down BJ’s body. He palms BJ’s erection through his trousers, and BJ bucks up against his hand, already tipping toward release. Hawkeye squeezes, and that’s all it takes before BJ is coming with a bitten-off cry. He reaches out blindly toward Hawkeye and Hawkeye laces their fingers together as BJ rides it out.

Still holding onto Hawkeye’s hand like a lifeline, BJ collapses into a boneless heap. He turns a sleepy, satisfied grin on Hawkeye, who’s frowning down at him, pouting a little. “I was gonna blow you,” he says, sounding genuinely put out.

BJ laughs and tugs on Hawkeye’s hand until Hawkeye lies down beside him in the narrow cot. They’re face to face, feet and legs tangling together, and BJ presses a soft kiss to Hawkeye’s mouth, gentle and affectionate. “You could have just said something.”

“Nah,” Hawkeye says. 

“What, you preferred letting me walk in on you?”

Hawkeye shrugs. “I like an audience,” he says, shameless. He slips a hand between them and dips his finger into BJ’s trousers, swiping through the mess in his shorts. “You liked it too.” Hawkeye pops his finger in his mouth and sucks, eyes rolling back as his cheeks hollow. BJ knows it’s only for show (or mostly anyway), but his cock gives a valiant twitch in hope of an encore performance.

“I did,” BJ admits. “Still, you don’t have to spring it on me. Just ask. Maybe next time I’ll show you exactly how much I like watching you touch yourself.”

“Next time, huh?” Hawkeye’s cheeky grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s bracing himself. As if BJ could possibly turn this down now that he has it.

“Well,” BJ amends, “next time I’d like to do the touching. But the time after that?” He pulls Hawkeye close and kisses him, soft and slow. It’s a promise, and not one made lightly. 

When BJ pulls back again, Hawkeye’s eyes are dark. “What are you doing for the rest of the war?” he says, a little breathless.

“You, I hope,” BJ says. “Maybe a little surgery if there’s time.”


End file.
